The Frost

My past is tidier than the present. Not overly so, just the way I used to keep things. I still know where I used to keep needles and thread, scraps of cloth and paper. I still know what books were on what shelf.

I find myself opening empty drawers, I don’t know where any of my cookbooks are. I think I lent them to my sister, along with my winter boots, and the green cotton jacket no one ever saw me wear. I am always giving things away, always wanting a fresh start.

Fall is here and every night promises to be colder than the last. Tonight the first frost is predicted, so tomorrow will likely be the day that I cut back the rest of the garden, and pull up the wilted brown basil that was green and flowering just this morning.

There have been more acorns this year than I can remember, so I think that means it will be a snowy winter. The leaves on the maple and oak trees have turned brilliant shades of red and orange. The woods where I walk every day will soon wear a blanket of fallen leaves on the ground, and the trees and their skeletal branches will wait, exposed and somehow taller, for snow to fall. This will be my first winter in three years (real winter), which might not seem like long for some, but three years of summer has been enough for me.

Since the humidity broke, my skin has started to feel different. In the morning I pull on thick socks and pace around the kitchen waiting for the water in the kettle to boil. I can feel the cold air fill my lungs as I step outside, and the warmth of my breath as I exhale. The sun is still high in the October sky, but soon the days will be very short.

Soon it will be the time for darkness, the time for solitude and rest.

For every feeling I have ever known, there is a season to perfectly match it.